but the road smells of cinnamon and old letters.
You walk and the wind hums secrets
only the trees understand.
A cat crosses your path
and leaves a trail of tiny golden stars
that vanish before you can touch them.
Time drips like honey from the sky.
Moments settle in your hair
and in the pockets of your coat,
waiting to be found again.
Happiness sits on a chair at the edge of a field,
whispering a story you almost remember.
Sadness leans on the doorway,
smiling without words,
as if it has known you your whole life.
Your heart keeps a drawer of invisible things
a laugh that no one else heard,
a shadow that lingers even when the sun is gone.
Flowers bloom in the corners of streets
that nobody notices,
and when you look back
they are gone,
but the scent stays in your chest.
Death waits quietly at the end of the road,
its hands full of light and dust.
You are not afraid.
You know the journey is the magic
the small, impossible moments
that make the ordinary shimmer.
And you walk,
leaving little traces of warmth
like invisible footprints
that no one will follow
except perhaps someone who dreams
exactly like you.
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